Cold Hands, Warm Heart
by PippaGee123
Summary: John realises that Sherlock is much more than just his genius friend when he loses his sister and Sherlock is the one to comfort him.
1. Monday 29th January

Monday, 29th January

The flat was silent except for the low hum of a laptop and the rain lightly tapping on the outside of the window . Sherlock was half asleep- he got back from a case at four in the morning and hadn't so much as closed his eyes in over twenty-four hours. In his languid state, Sherlock barely registered the soft clicking of the front door and the light, uneven footsteps of somebody ascending the stars.

Uneven?

John.

"John? What's wrong?" Sherlock stood up from his reclining position on the sofa, the laptop sliding from his lap and onto the rug with a dull thud. John's psychosomatic limp had not troubled him once since he and Sherlock met, but he could hear it in his friend's footsteps as he climbed the stairs. Sherlock knew something was wrong.

John appeared a few seconds later, soaking wet from the rain. He had an umbrella but he hadn't bothered to use it. There wasn't any wind. John wanted to get wet. He stood in the door way for a while, silent and shivering.

"John?"

"Harry. It's Harry. " Had John been crying? His eyes were red, his voice quiet and uncertain.

"Sit down, John. Tell me what's wrong."

John dropped his umbrella by the door and took a few unsteady steps, closing the distance between himself and the sofa. "She... she was. Killed. Car accident." He took a shaky breath in an attempt to compose himself but it was futile. "She'd been drinking."

For once, the great detective was lost for words. He'd been around more grieving relatives than he'd care to count, sure, but none of them were John. None of them mattered to Sherlock. The cogs in his brain slowed down and ground to a halt. His mouth opening and closing in a pathetic attempt to form words. "John, I'm... sorry?" Useless. What good will that do?

"How could she be so stupid, Sherlock? How could she- she, do this to us? To herself and her new girlfriend and mum and dad?" Sherlock shook his head, mentally kicking himself for being so damn useless. A heavy silence filled the flat again, punctuated by the sporadic hammering of rainfall against the window.

"People are damaged, John," Sherlock finally spoke up. "They do ridiculous things because they are scared or lonely or troubled. You can't blame her, John. It's not fair."

John turned to Sherlock, surprised by his seemingly _normal_ comment. It didn't last long, though, and was quickly quashed by a returning tide of grief.

"Yeah. Well we come out of this worse, don't we." There was hint of bitterness in John's voice that didn't go unnoticed by Sherlock.

"What can I do, John? Tea? Something stronger? I think Mycroft left some of that expensive scotch when he was here last, I can look-"

"Tea is fine, Sherlock."

As soon as Sherlock reached the kitchen, he slid his phone out of his dressing gown pocket, flicking on the kettle as he entered in his password.

He tapped out a message to his brother:

_John's sister died. John upset. What do I do? –SH_

Much to Sherlock's chagrin, the kettle had finished boiling before Mycroft replied. Now he'd have to make John wait.

_Hug him. _– _M_

Sherlock rolled his eyes in disgust and dropped a teabag into John's favourite mug.

_Hug him? Really, Mycroft. – SH _

Mycroft's reply was quicker this time:

_Try it. Good night Sherlock. –M_

_ /_

_Anything else? – SH_

_..._

_Mycroft? _

_..._

_Fine. _

_... _

Sherlock set the cooling tea down in front of John and reclaimed his position on the sofa, tilting his body toward the man next to him. John wasn't crying, he was stoic and silent. His finger tapped out a repeated rhythm on his shaking knee. Sherlock took a deep breath and pulled John's warm body into his own, arms wrapped completely around the grieving man's back.

John sobbed.


	2. Tuesday 30th January

Tuesday, 30th January

John was exhausted, but barely slept a wink. He eventually trudged downstairs at six fifteen, still dressed in last night's clothes.  
>When he reached the kitchen, Sherlock was already perched on a chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin.<p>

'Sherlock?'

John's voice seemed to snap him out of his reverie as he quickly turned his head toward the sound. 'John, are you alright? Do you need anything?'

Sherlock's concern struck john as odd: he was usually stoic and unresponsive toward other people's emotional problems. Still, better to take advantage of it. 'Tea, please. Extra sugar, if you don't mind.'

'Of course, John.'

Five minutes later, John was seated opposite Sherlock, sipping slowly at the tea that had been made for him.

"John?" Sherlock tried, eyeing his friend with a hint of caution. "I didn't think you and your sister... got on."

"We didn't." John replied shortly, tracing a line along the table with one short finger. "But we were family. You'd act like you wouldn't, but you'd be upset if you lost Mycroft, I know you would."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand and stood up to refill his mug. "The only think I'd miss about Mycroft is that he occasionally gives me an interesting case."

John considered this for a moment, watching Sherlock press his lips into a fine line as he poured milk into his tea. He knew Sherlock was lying. At least Sherlock still _had _a sibling. "For one, Sherlock, I know you're lying. And secondly, learn to appreciate your brother, you never know what's around the corner."

Sherlock seemed to contemplate this for a moment, his dark eyebrows raising slightly in consideration. "You're right, John. As always."

"Exactly. Look, Sherlock, I know you don't... how can I- well, _understand_ the feelings I have right now, but it's difficult. Just because I don't get on with Harry-"

"-Doesn't mean you don't miss her." Sherlock finished. "I know, John. I know that _normal _families can be at hammer and tongs with one another, but that doesn't mean that they don't _love_ each other. Do give me some credit, John. The time I've spent with you has helped my understanding of human nature _somewhat._"

John smiled at this, only slightly, but Sherlock noticed the edge of John's lips turn up into the beginning of that warm smile he'd come to recognise.

_Good_, Sherlock thought, _he's reacting the way he should be. _Sherlock poured John a second cup of tea and reclaimed his position opposite him on the table. He studied his friend in detail: his eyes still seemed sad and he looked tired: they weren't red anymore though, so he hadn't been crying. There was a hint of stubble starting to appear around his mouth: obviously he doesn't care how he looks, probably hasn't even looked in the mirror. Sherlock supposed this was normal for somebody who'd just lost a family member, but thought he'd better ask.

"How do you feel?"

"Mm? Oh, better than I did last night, I suppose. First night's the worst, you can't stop thinking about it." John paused, sighing heavily, and then shook his head. "What could I have done, Sherlock? Nothing, absolutely nothing. But when you're lying in bed, trying your damn hardest to sleep, it feels like you could have done everything. I felt like I could have actually made a difference, but didn't try."

"You know that you couldn't have done anything. Your sister was her own worst enemy. You know that."

This earned another sigh from the doctor. "I know that now. It was just the initial... shock." Despite John's front, there was still an anguish in his voice which pained Sherlock to hear. It was the first time Sherlock had ever felt useless to John and the thought made his stomach turn. John was all that mattered but Sherlock finally found something he couldn't fix. He searched every last corner of that unrivalled brain for something that would at least be of some use, but through the myriad of facts and knowledge, nothing felt good enough.

"When's the funeral?"

"Thursday. I'd like you to come, if you don't mind. I know that's a big ask and you don't know my family and you might find it repugnant, but I'd really like you to come."

"Of course, John."


End file.
